


wake me up inside

by dreamcatchme



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dom!Sif, F/M, Marriage Proposal, especially smut, i just really love sif okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamcatchme/pseuds/dreamcatchme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sif has finally had enough of Loki's practical jokes and decides to teach him a lesson in the one way that he might understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wake me up inside

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing but I've recently gotten obsessed with this pairing (oh my god who has even seen thor 2 there is so much sexual tension i can't cope asdfghjkl) so I felt the need to write some smut about them. Also Dom!Sif is my favourite thing in the world so yeah. Tell me what you think?

 

 

 

**_wake me up inside_ **

The room is hot and Sif can feel her cheeks burning and she has to get out of there right this second before he has a chance to catch her crying – last time this happened she swore to the Allfather, not to mention every god and deity in the cosmos, that Loki would never see her shed a tear over him again – but already she can hear his pealing laughter, tinkling and keening and building to a crescendo around her as their friends join in one by one. Sif tries to smile, tries with every fibre of her being, but her attempts aren’t good enough and she leaps to her feet, turns on the heel of her boot and hurries away, wiping a mixture of salty tears and ash, both remnants of Loki’s most recent ‘hilarious’ prank, away from her face with her fingertips. _Of course,_ it is Sif that’s in the wrong right now, because how in the Nine Realms could an exploding bouquet of flowers possibly not be funny? Why would Sif _ever_ assume that her unofficial on-again, off-again partner and soul mate for all intents and purposes was performing a genuine romantic gesture? Hasn’t she learnt by now? When Sif had watched Loki stride across the Great Hall of the palace with that shit-eating grin that she doesn’t understand why she loves so much on his face and thirty glimmering golden roses in his arms, she’d felt her face light up. But what had she really expected? This is Loki – he’d never pass up the opportunity to show off his magical prowess and, as always, turn every remotely serious occasion into a joke.

Sif storms down the corridor in the general direction of her palace living quarters, but she feels aimless and angry and instead of continuing flings herself down on a ledge in a little alcove behind a marble statue of Odin’s great grandfather, one of Asgard’s original noblemen and rulers, completely out of the way of any passers’ by and so that her face is shrouded in darkness. She wipes furiously at her tears, stupid, childish tears that she has shed too many times over a man she knows is nowhere near worth them. Her hair falls out of its careful style as she rips at the ornamental combs holding it in place, raking her hands through it and letting out a sob that echoes in her chest and brings with it a fresh wave of tears. _You’re better off alone,_ a small voice in her head advises her, and Sif is about to agree with it when she hears another voice, a voice that’s far too familiar, coming from behind the statue and moving down the corridor just beyond where she’s sitting.

“Sif?” Loki calls out, his voice low and gentle. If Sif didn't know him any better, she might even say he sounds cautious. “Sif, where are you?”

Sif holds her breath and concentrates on keeping quiet, and several seconds pass during which his footsteps begin to quieten and she starts to think that she might be safe. Then she comes up for air and another shuddering sob rips its way out of her mouth, a fresh, fat tear leaving a trail down her cheek. She knows it was too much to hope for – Loki is too quick, too clever, cares too much – and a second later he’s rounding the corner. Sif stares at the parquet floor with her teeth gritted and as stony an expression as she can muster on her face, refusing to make eye contact.

“Are you well?” he asks, voice concerned but as always laced with amusement. It’s like he can’t even control it, goes out of his way to pretend that things like this don’t matter to him, but Sif has had enough of his bullshit for one day, thank you very much. She glares up at him – she’s grateful for the lit sconce up above them as it illuminates the tear tracks on her face, and in that moment his expression shifts beyond recognition. His near permanent smirk disappears in an instant and he inhales sharply, dropping to his knees in front of her and staring intently into her face.

“Lady Sif,” he says so gently that he could be addressing a child, taking her hand that rests in her lap in both of his own.

“No,” she counters abruptly, feeling another traitorous tear escape down her cheek. “No, _my prince_ ,” she bites out. “I am _not_ well. Once again, thanks to you and your usual total lack of empathy, I am _in no way well._ ” Her voice breaks on the last word and it feels like a shard of ice has impaled her through the heart and it hurts and against her wishes Sif just crumbles. She falls against his chest, her tears soaking the green material at his shoulder, and his arms move around her waist, closing the gap and pulling her flush against him, his fingers lacing together at the small of her back.

“Oh, my lady,” he murmurs against her ear, rocking her back and forth so gently that the movement could almost have gone unnoticed. “Forgive me. I’m a fool. I did not know.”

“You are a fool!” she sobs, but her disloyal body only coils itself closer to him. And so they sit in silence for a while, Loki pulling his fingertips through her hair slowly, soothingly, so still that Sif can feel his heart beating steadily beneath his skin, until her tears finally cease and she makes an attempt to pull herself together. She sits up, trying to formulate words into sentences in her head, and runs her fingers across her cheeks, red and stinging, then finally looks him in the eye.

“You don’t understand how your actions hurt me, Loki,” she tells him, allowing him to take her hand back in his own once more. “I wish you could be serious sometimes. Not everything in life is a joke. When you walked toward me earlier, carrying those flowers, you looked every bit the gleaming, chivalrous, handsome prince from the stories that my mother used to read to me.” A small smile manages to find its way onto her face. She sighs heavily. “Then they exploded.”

His eyes widen. “In my defense –”

“Exploding. Flowers. Are. Not. Romantic,” she informs him sharply, her brow furrowing. How can somebody so bright and so intuitive simultaneously be so impossibly obtuse? He looks hurt and beyond confused and Sif just rolls her eyes. “All I am saying is that for some reason a part of me was actually expecting a romantic gesture from you for once. I thought that some things were more important to you than your wretched magic tricks and drawing cheap laughs out of the crowd.”

Then Loki swallows visibly, and she knows that she’s said too much. “Romantic?”

Sif regrets it immediately. She shrugs in a way that she hopes appears nonchalant and tries to backtrack. “I meant nothing by it, just –”

“Have you been talking to my mother?”

His voice isn’t angry – more deeply intrigued than anything – but once again Sif finds herself unable to look him in the eye, mainly because she has indeed been talking to Loki and Thor’s mother Frigga, a second mother to Sif if she has ever known one and a commanding, elegant woman who may or may not have accidentally revealed her adopted son’s romantic intentions with Sif over breakfast a week or so ago. Her heart had dropped into her stomach as her queen uttered the word _marriage_ , and the conversation had been resounding in Sif’s head ever since. Frigga never thought that Loki would be able to settle down, to be content to commit and introduce some continuity into his capricious lifestyle; not until Sif had come along and uprooted his world, but Sif hasn’t allowed herself to believe it, not really, has pushed the thought to one side and stopped trying to make sense of it. But now her heart is fluttering in her chest like a caged bird once more as his penetrative gaze strips away every kind of pretense she’s been trying to maintain.

She bites her lip and he moves his hands to hold her face between them. “Are you angry with me?”

“I could never be angry with you, my lady Sif,” he says softly. “And it is true.” He swallows hard again, then his expression softens in a way that almost seems forced – could Loki possibly be nervous? Sif never thought that she would see the day. “I would take you as my wife and make you my queen, if you would have me.”

Sif’s jaw drops. Are her ears deceiving her? There is no way that this can really be happening. Since they were children she has dreamt of moments like this, occasionally about Thor but most often Loki, dreamt of their fairy-tale wedding and their beautiful ink-haired babies and of sitting astride the throne of Asgard beside her husband and her king. She knows better than anybody else that Loki is not now, nor has he ever been, the man that he pretends to be in the eyes of his people. But not once did she imagine the reality of it, of hearing those words come from his mouth, not to mention how she might react – Sif is frozen, and his next words ring in her ears.

“But this was not how I intended for this to happen, and therefore this is not my official proposal. I will propose to you, Sif, I promise, but not like this. Not now that I’ve hurt you.”

Sif nods slowly, still trying to make sense of what is happening. There is still ash in the creases of her face, and as she stares at him he wipes away what’s left with his fingertips. “Good,” she murmurs, dipping her head close to his so that their noses touch and she watches Loki close his eyes. Then, with as much sincerity as she can manage, she finishes in a whisper: “Because tonight I would have denied you.”

His eyes snap open. “My lady?”

 _You must not sound teasing,_ she tells herself. _You are being absolutely serious_. “Well, of course. You hold barely any respect for me, as your actions have made clear tonight. How can I trust you to treat me correctly if I take you as my husband? I’m not entirely sure...”

“Sif, you cannot be serious...”

“Of course I’m serious,” she says, as solemnly as she can. “You need to prove that you can respect me as your wife.” She purses her lips and rises slowly to her feet, pulling him up with her with one hand in his and one hand at his collar. “Prove it to me,” she murmurs against his lips, feeling his smile. “Prove it to me or else.” And with that she turns away from him, biting her lip and grinning to herself while Loki can’t see. Her nerve! She’s surprised even herself. He’s rendered totally speechless until Sif walks away from him in the opposite direction to her usual living quarters – the dark passageway she chooses instead beckons her forward, promising secrets and scandal and infinite excitement.

“My ...” She turns, startled by his uncharacteristic hesitancy, and smirks, her eyes wide with innocence. “My lady Sif, where are we going?”

“Well, Loki, _I_ have grown tired of my own bedchambers and am therefore going to _yours_.” She cocks her head to one side and surpresses her inner glee at seeing his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows, his gaze flickering momentarily to her lips. “Why... Did you wish to accompany me?”

Loki grins, colour rising in his cheeks, and for a moment he looks like a boy again – his hair is mussed from Sif’s fingers, and he wears an expression that would befit a child caught in the act of committing a particularly amusing prank. He steps forward and loops an arm around her waist, fingers bunching the material of her gown at her hip. “I would enjoy nothing more.”

Sif smiles because she has a plan, and this time it’s Loki that isn’t going to know what’s hit him.

 

/ / / / /

 

When Loki closes the heavy wooden door behind them, he places a hand flat against the surface on either side of her head, holding her prisoner in his arms as he leans in to kiss her, but Sif knows that things between them need to change, wants them to change, and it is in this particular arena of their lives, of their twisted, anomalous relationship, that she has decided to make a start. So she spins him around, drawing a surprised gasp from his lips as she presses him against the door and grinds her hips upwards against his to accommodate for the difference in their heights. Loki growls low in his throat as Sif surges forward so that their bodies are flush against one another as she noses into his jaw, the slender curve of his neck.

“You are mine,” she tells him in a whisper, and his breath comes hot and fast against her cheek as she kisses a line down from his ear lobe, suckling and eventually biting down hard when he tangles his fingers in her dark tresses. With a click she unfastens his cloak and it falls to the ground – she kicks it aside and slips a hand around his waist to turn the key in the lock. Tonight he’s her prisoner, and she’s not letting him escape quite so easily. When she feels him smile she pulls away, reaching up and knotting her own fingers in his hair this time and tugging just firmly enough that she knows he still experiences the sting. “You are mine and you will serve me and you will do as I command,” she breathes into his ear, her heart thumping in her chest, and her next breath catches in her throat as she witnesses what she had previously thought to be the impossible. He steps to one side, away from the door through which they just entered, turns, then kneels before her, one hand over his heart, his gaze resolute and reverential like that of one in the presence of a queen. In that moment Sif has to fight to resist the smile that threatens to bubble over her mask of sternness, a smile made up of a mixture of amusement, surprise and absolute relief that now, finally, Loki _understands_.

“Lady Sif,” he murmurs, bowing his head then gazing up at her from beneath his eyelashes in that way that makes her insides turn somersaults. “I am at your mercy,” he promises, his hands moving to deftly unlace her boots, fingertips lingering at her ankle and burning a blazing trail across her skin. She steps out of the boots, biting her lip to help maintain her stony expression, and her nerves smoulder and pulse beneath her skin as he trails his left hand up and then back down her now bare calf, fingers forming a manacle around her ankle. “Be gentle with me,” he teases, looking up at her, an amused smile playing around his lips.

Sif doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll see,” she murmurs, then breaks free of his grasp and crosses the room, being sure to drag her fingers as slowly and deliberately as possibly across his shoulder blades as she goes, and sits down on the edge of Loki’s bed, placing her hands on the furs either side of her and cocking her head in his direction. He’s still kneeling on the floor, his jaw slack as he watches her, when she slips her evening gown off over her head and discards it to one side, leaving her in nothing but her pale ivory bodice, undershorts and the stockings that her mother had forced her into earlier this evening to enhance her likeness as a proper ‘lady of the court’. Sif is glad for them now, though – she leans to one side, stretching her body out across the bed and gazing at him, eyes dark and beckoning, and he is powerless to do anything but stare back. She purses her lips and slowly, deliberately trails a hand along her side, caressing every curve and eliciting a long exhalation of breath from Loki. “Here,” she commands, eyes fixed on his, extending her arm toward him and pulling him to the edge of the bed by the folds of his collar. “Now.”

He approaches her slowly, eyes raking over her exposed peaches-and-cream flesh. Sif’s hand releases his collar and moves to his chest, languorously unfastening the buttons of his black doublet – it falls to the floor and she strokes the flat, muscular planes of his chest, his stomach, his shoulders, toned, lean and lithe where his brother is broad and strapping. She lets her nails bite into his skin as she fans her fingers out against his abdomen, leaving faint red lines upon the alabaster canvas of his chest, already scarred and marked in places from his infrequent but inevitable slips in battle. They flaw his indisputable perfection but, if anything, Sif thinks that they add to it; Loki is a consummate warrior, and he wears his scars like medals of honour just as he should. He watches her intently as she touches him, eyes following her every movement reverentially, and under that gaze molten heat churns in her stomach and suddenly she needs more, needs him everywhere, needs everything that he can give her.

“Come here,” she says more gently, moving back on the bed to allow him room, and he obliges within a split second.

“Sif,” he murmurs, breath warm against her ear as he covers her body with his own – his weight atop hers is comfort, it’s security, it’s safety and shelter and home all rolled into one.

“Kiss me,” she says, and Loki doesn’t have to be told twice. Their lips meet and their kiss is slow and sweet, languid at first then becoming more urgent when Sif winds her arms around his neck and pushes her tongue past the barrier of his teeth, licking into his mouth and moaning softly as she feels his hands against the small of her back, rubbing circles into the skin there and pulling her impossibly closer. He smells like a heady mix of summerwine and scented oil and sin, and, completely intoxicated, she tangles her fingers in his hair. Her lips slip from his mouth to his jaw then his neck, sucking and nipping until, with a smile at her own audacity, she reaches his pulse point and bites down, marking the skin at his neck and soothing it fleetingly with her tongue when she hears him gasp. She laughs once, a breathy, ragged sound, imagining his reaction to the inevitable bruise that will have appeared there by morning, and leans up to crush her lips to his lips once more. His tongue meets hers in a fervent dance and her head rolls back on her neck, coming into contact with the furs beneath them.

“That is quite a tongue you have there,” she giggles, hands fisted in his hair, eyes fluttering to a close as he plants a trail of kisses between her ear lobe and the hollow of her throat, sending a hum of electricity across the surface of her skin that does nothing but fuel the liquid fire pooling in her lower belly.

He hums a laugh against her neck. “They do not call me ‘Silver-tongue’ for nothing,” he says, and she feels him smile as his lips move down to her collarbones, the tops of her breasts.

She begins to say that “I’m not entirely sure that is the reason for that nickname,” but then his hands move around her back and deftly begin to unlace her bodice and she keens – Sif arches her body off the bed to enable him to remove it from her completely, and she feels her heart hammer in her chest as she watches his eyes rake over her exposed flesh. “Gods, Lady Sif, your beauty is one thing that I know I will never grow tired of,” he promises her, leaning back down and continuing his torturously slow exploration of her body, kissing a line down the centre of her chest. Her breath hitches in her throat as he palms her now bare breasts, teasing them with his fingers and taking one nipple into his mouth. She moans, clutching him to her with her hands in his hair, and slowly, mercilessly, he moves a hand down her abdomen, across the bones at her hips.

“I can think of other ways for you to put that silver tongue of yours to good use, Loki,” she tells him, and he grins up at her from somewhere around her waist. She props herself up on her elbows, reaching out to pull her fingers through his hair as he loosens the string of her undershorts and gradually pulls them down her legs, leaving her in nothing but her stockings. When he tugs the shorts off of her left ankle, he holds her foot in his hands, massaging the ball and arch with his fingertips and causing Sif to shudder.

“What my queen wants...” he murmurs, running his hands up Sif’s legs and pushing her thighs apart, causing a breeze to hum pleasantly across her sensitive flesh. “... My queen gets,” he finishes, before lowering his mouth to her.

She sighs heavily as he licks into her, prising apart the most receptive area of her body with his tongue and then his long, elegant fingers – he teases her silken folds gently but fast, and she feels a steady incline of pressure mounting inside her as his tongue moves up and down. He places a kiss at her centre, rubbing, tasting, and Sif has to bite her lip to stop herself from crying out. Loki notices this – he laughs, and the sound sends a vibration through her that rocks her very core. She fists her hands in the fur comforter beneath her and fights to control her breathing as she sits up, placing her palms on either side of his face.

“I won’t let this end quite yet,” she declares, and leans down to kiss him again. His mouth is open when their lips meet, and the taste she finds there is that of herself, strange, both salty and sweet and not entirely unpleasant. She kneels up as they kiss and he mirrors her – his hands move around and cup her backside, pulling him toward her, hips grinding forward, seeking friction, some kind of relief. Sif is happy to oblige; he’s already proven himself to be fairly compliant this evening, so as a reward with one hand she moves to unfasten his trousers, feeling his growing arousal hard against her thigh as she scoots closer and pushes him down onto his back. She places a hand on either side of his body, naked now that the trousers have joined the growing pile of discarded clothing on the ground, imprisoning him in her arms, and dips her head down, kissing his neck, his jaw then finally his lips, slow and indolent. She’s in control, and it is for that reason that she pulls away from his lips, fixes her eyes on his and then finally, mercilessly slowly, sinks down onto his length, her mouth parting as she feels Loki fill her. For the first time tonight he cries out, magnificent head thrown back against the pillows, and Sif stays completely still, her own head bowed as she adjusts to his size, their uncharacteristic position. Loki leans up, strong arms around her shoulders, and kisses her between ragged, heavy intakes of breath. Sif smiles, kissing him back with all that she’s worth as she begins to move on top of him, winding her arms around his neck and knotting her fingers in his hair; with every thrust she grinds her hips downward and Loki’s move up to meet her, and they settle into a sweet, perfect rhythm, both breathing hard, hearts beating in time with one another. She surges somehow closer, craving him, needing every part of him, and now they are sealed together with barely room to breathe, let alone move at all. Sif works with it, though – she rocks back and forth astride him, one hand in his hair, the other a fist on his chest, and she feels his fingers entwine with hers at the precise moment when the molten heat at her core overflows and her vision goes white. Stars explode into supernovas behind her eyelids and she hears herself cry out his name as her pleasure hits its peak, and her climax causes every part of her to tremble with the force of it. Loki follows quickly, moaning against her lips and whispering her name in her ear, over and over like a holy mantra, and for a while neither of them moves. She holds onto him tightly, steadfastly, as though he might disappear with the slightest release of grip. Because the truth is that he often does, and it is the thing that Sif it most afraid of.

 

/ / / / /

 

They never do return to the feast.

Hours later it’s completely dark, and still they lay together in Loki’s bedchamber, Sif stretched across Loki’s chest with his arm draped across her lean frame, their bare legs twisted together. She turns her nose into his neck, inhaling the smell of him that she loves so much, and smiles against his skin when she catches sight of the bite mark she left him during their hours of passion.

“Mine,” she hums with audible satisfaction against the yellow-black bruise, and Loki laughs. He plays with her fingers – his second favourite part of her, he had said once – and then she feels something cold materialise in her hand.

“Yes,” he agrees, turning and kissing her hair. Sif looks at her their joined hands and gasps when she sees the silver band that has appeared on her fourth finger. “If you’ll have me,” he adds gently, rolling onto his side and lacing his fingers with hers. She smiles down at the ring – delicate, set in silver, an emerald with a million facets woven to the centre – and kisses him, long and deep.

“I’ve already had you once today,” she teases against his lips, eyes searching his face and lighting up when he smiles back at her.

“Well then, in that case, I insist you say yes, Lady Sif.” He rolls them over and presses his nose to her jaw, dragging it slowly up to her ear. “Or Queen Sif. That’s what they will call you.” He kisses her neck slowly, sucking and licking, and Sif moans, low in her throat. “And what a queen you will be.”

“Mm,” is the only response she can manage, then she lets go of thoughts and words.


End file.
